


Of Iron

by undochaos



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:14:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2042184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undochaos/pseuds/undochaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of miscellaneous Cass/Viv oneshots, mostly from tumblr prompts. Ranging from fluffy to not-so-fluffy, updated whenever I get a new a fic idea or prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt given on tumblr:  
> "Cassandra x Vivienne. One, of your choice, gets injured and is being stubborn about accepting help from the other"

The night was silent but for the popping and crackling of the campfire, though it would be less so if Vivienne had less control over herself. She had done what she could with her own meager healing abilities, and now she was left to bear the pain as best she could until they could make it back to the nearest Keep.

The dragon itself had done surprisingly little damage, but one of its young had managed to get behind her, and now she had an impressive slash across her back to show for it.

The Inquisitor had managed to stop the bleeding and put some makeshift wrappings on it after the dragon was felled, and she carried on well through the rest of the day’s work. The Seeker had been casting concerned glances her way the entire time, though. She knew it was only a matter of time before the warrior appeared at her tent with a roll of bandages and a bottle of elfroot potion.

"Seeker Pentaghast," the mage began as soon as she heard the tent flap open, not bothering to rise from where she lay chest-down on her bedroll, "I am fine. Please, do not concern yourself with me."

"I am sorry for disturbing you, Enchanter, but I cannot in good conscience leave without seeing to your wound," Cassandra replied. Her husky voice and unique accent—a blend of natural Nevarran and learned Orlesian, from years spent in the country at the Divine’s side—always made a shiver pass down Vivienne’s spine. But like the pain, she pushed that down, and did not let it show.

"It is unnecessary, Seeker. We will make it to the Keep by tomorrow and a healer will deal with it. I have suffered worse."

But a woman stubborn enough to go head-to-head against an iron portcullis (and strong enough to win) would not be dismissed so easily. Or, in this case, at all. “It is my duty to protect you. I failed in that. Let me at least tend the wound I should have been there to prevent,” the warrior said.

Vivienne allowed herself a small chuckle at that. “With all due respect, Seeker, I am a Knight-Enchanter of the Circle of Montsimmard. I am quite capable of protecting myself.”

"Does your back agree?"

That earned her another chuckle, louder and decidedly more genuine than the last. Cassandra found she rather liked that sound. It was as rich and graceful as any other part of the mage, anything else she did. Perhaps she could try to give her more reasons to laugh.

"Humor me?" the warrior requested, holding up the bandages.

After a considerable pause, she replied, “Alright. But please, be quick. I would like to get my sleep.”

"Of course."

Having stripped off the most cumbersome bits of her armor after they made camp, Cassandra knelt easily behind her as Vivienne pulled herself into a sitting position, holding a blanket to her front. Again the mage found herself repressing a shiver as calloused fingers ran over the bare skin of her back, stripping off the older bandages.

When the wound was uncovered and the wrappings set aside, the Seeker uncorked the potion flask. “This may sting,” she warned before she began spreading the thick substance in the wound and around it. 

It stung no more than the pain of the injury itself did, and Vivienne shouldered it every bit as well, staying still and silent. If anything strained on her composure, it was the warrior’s gentle fingers brushing over her flesh, not the pain. Even when she had finished applying the potion, her touch lingered.

Bandaging it took less time and was significantly less personal. As she finished up her work, Cassandra gave a small huff; it wasn’t ideal, but it would ease her mind, at least. “This should hold until we reach a healer. And I am still regretful that I could not protect you, dear heart.”

Vivienne looked over her shoulder at the warrior. “Dear heart?”

Cassandra’s eyes widened as she realized her mistake. Ducking her head, she muttered, “I am sorry, Enchanter. Slip of the tongue.”

Turning more fully towards her, Vivienne leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to the woman’s jaw. Trailing her lips upwards to her ear, she whispered, “Rest. Please.” And as she pulled back, the corners of her mouth turned slowly upwards. “If you are to  _protect_  me tomorrow, my Seeker, you will need your sleep.”

In lieu of an answer, Cassandra drew the other woman into a full kiss. It was not demanding or heated, as one would think a kiss after a brush with a drake’s claws should be, but gentle, sweet, and languid. Their lips pressed softly together, feeling for all the world as though they were made just for this kiss, and Vivienne’s fingers came to intertwine with her own.

When they finally parted, the warrior asked, “May I sleep here, Vivienne?”

Her voice had the same effect as it always did on the mage, doubly so with the reverence and care with which she spoke her name. This time, Vivienne let the shiver show. “You may, Cassandra,” she answered, the smile on her lips growing ever wider.

That night, even in the cold of Ferelden with the reminder of an  _almost_  aching on her back, Vivienne slept warmly, soundly, with her Seeker’s chest pressed against her bandages.


	2. Baisemain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt given on tumblr:  
> " **Baisemain:** _a kiss on the hand_ "

The Winter Palace had come alive for the ball. Large chandeliers of dripping crystals and bright candles hung from the ceiling, illuminating the royal jewel tones, glittering gold, and polished marble of the palace’s interior. Music and the smell of fine-cooked food filled the air. And most importantly, there was brandy—the expensive kind.

All of this for the Inquisition, and the wide-eyed little Dalish (whose sweet, self-sacrificing nature was just familiar enough for it to hurt) with the hole in her hand at the center of it. It was like something out of a storybook.

Eventually, it would be  _in_  a storybook, provided he lived long enough to write it. Cassandra could go on about “skill” and “experience” for as long as she wanted, he knew why he was here. The Seeker didn’t expect any of them to make it out of this. It was his job to survive them and tell the story.

He needed a new line of work. He was getting damn tired of being the survivor.

But he was in it for the long run now, for good or ill, and Varric Tethras was not one to turn tail and run because he didn’t like how things were going. The brandy helped it go down easier, at least.

He’d opted out of dancing and socializing, choosing to observe from the edge of the ballroom floor rather than partake. There had been a few members of the Inquisition with him, originally—Blackwall, Bull, Leliana, Cassandra—but they’d all drifted off on their own ways before too long. Blackwall had recognized a fellow Warden and gone off to talk, Afanen had managed to talk Bull into a dance (a Dalish and a Qunari, dancing at an Orlesian ball; there are a knock-knock joke in there somewhere), Leliana had vanished in the way she so often did, and Cassandra—

—huh. He wasn’t actually sure where the Seeker had gotten off to. And she couldn’t just slip away or disappear into the shadows like Leliana; she never made any attempt to conceal her movements. Maybe he should be worried by that.

He never got the chance to start, though. He blinked and she was there, a few scant yards away on the outer edge of the crowd. She moved with purpose, like she always did, but she was hesitating too, fisting her hands in the dark blue material of her skirts. 

She looked like she was about to fight a fear demon. Or rather, like a normal person who was about to fight a fear demon, because when she fought fear demons the only expression she ever had was that one of unshakable determination that says, “I’m gonna headbutt that.” But you get the point; she looked nervous as shit.

He’d word that better when he wrote it down.  _If_  he wrote it down. Void if he knew what she was about to do. Anything that could put that much of a waver into her step, though, had to be worth writing about. So he kept watching, idly sipping his brandy as he waited to see where it was all going.

As it turned out, it was going in the direction of Vivienne, the infamous  _Madame de Fer_  and hostess of tonight’s ball. Even at her halting pace, Cassandra eventually made it to where the woman stood speaking with a noblewoman. She waited respectfully off to the side for the conversation to finish and the masked noblewoman to glide away in search of a dance partner. When Vivienne finally acknowledged her, she fell into a bow—not a curtsy, but a proper and very low bow over her sword arm—and extended her hand, palm up, to the mage.

Varric nearly choked in surprise, and even more so when Vivienne smiled and placed her hand in Cassandra’s. The Seeker softly kissed the back of her hand, holding her lips there for what seemed like forever and a day, as though she were kissing the feet of the Maker Himself. And then they swept away together, dancing with practiced grace and looking no where but each other’s eyes.

Now  _that_ was something to write about. He brought his glass to his lips again, keeping his eyes on the pair, and began to make mental notes of the words he would put to paper.

The last loyal Seeker, and the Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais.

The Lady of Iron, and the woman who breaks iron, breathes steel.

Entwined on the ballroom floor of Empress Celene’s Winter Palace, gliding and dancing and enraptured in one another—as though there was not a war on and the world was not burning, as though the sky was not bleeding demons into the realm, as though there were not men out to kill them both.

What  _will_  they think of next?


	3. Petrichor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt given on tumblr:  
> " **Petrichor:** _the smell of dry rain on the ground_ "

When her bare feet touched the cool, damp stone, she gave a small smile and shook her head at herself. She had no idea what she was doing. This isn’t something Vivienne would _ever_  have done before the Inquisition. Even now, with the Breach closed and a rare moment of peace for Thedas, this was still utterly ridiculous.

But maybe that’s what made it so perfect.

The grounds were quiet, the denizens of Skyhold chased inside by the rain. The downpour had finally stopped, and now there was not a soul around to see her like this; barefoot, bereft of her usual finery, with her mass of thick curls free from the confines of her elaborate hats. So she put aside all thought of appearances, of how silly this was, and let her smile spread into a wide and unapologetic grin.

The view was breathtaking, as it always was from these steps. The clouds had begun to clear out of the morning sky, and if she strained her eyes, she could just make out the beginnings of a rainbow. The mountains, topped with snow and shrouded in mist, surrounded them on all sides.

What really brought her out here, though, was the smell. For all the fine perfumes she owned, the smell of freshly fallen rain was the most wonderful scent she had ever encountered. 

It made her think of Cassandra, and that made her grin grow just a little bigger.

And now she felt silly again. Maker, she was blushing. Feeling for all the world like a giddy apprentice, she pressed her hands against her cheeks, staring out at the mountains. Her face was beginning to hurt from smiling.

 _Cassandra_. The only person in Thedas—flames, in  _existence_ , who could do this to her. Her Seeker. The other half of her heart.

That the smell of drying rain reminded her of Cassandra was fitting. It was so much like her. Crisp and understated, easy for one to miss, but pleasant. Pure. Fresh. Like everything in the world was new.

She couldn’t help wondering where her Seeker was now. The thought made her bright face soften a bit, her smile growing sweeter, more longing, as she stared down at the stone and ran her fingers through her hair. The moisture in the air was making it frizz and puff up; this time outside would cost her more time inside later to tame the tight coils.

 _Worth it_ , was all she could think. She needed this.  _Really_  needed it.

Even with the sky whole again and the worst of the conflicts ended, the Inquisition’s job was not quite done, and the burden on their shoulders was not a small one. They would manage it, of course, as they had managed everything else. They had yet to encounter anything they couldn’t beat, with enough time, enough effort, enough sacrifice.

Sacrifice. That was something she had had enough of. She hoped that there would be little call for more.

With one last deep breath to keep the memory of this smell with her, she decided her moment was over. She would head back into the Keep, dress for the day, and meet with Josephine and Varric to begin their work. And she would carry the thought of the rain and of Cassandra with her through her day.

Maybe she would come out again later, after lunch. To visit the graves.


	4. A Mother Worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt given on tumblr:  
> "Cassandra/Vivienne acting as mother figures to a very young and confused f!Trevelyan Inquisitor"

She stood at the window, barefoot in her high-necked nightgown, absorbed in her thoughts. Her face was lined with worry, light flickering over her features as she absently tossed a small flame from one hand to the other.

Fire-juggling, as absurd as it may sound, was a nervous habit she had had since she first learned to conjure fire. There had been many times in her apprenticeship where she’d accidentally burned drapes, books, and once even the First Enchanter, as she stressed over one thing or another. When she had begun to suspect her Harrowing was growing close, she’d nearly caught an entire wing of the library on fire.

Usually those memories would be a refuge from the stress and concerns of her daily life. But now, remembering her days as an apprentice did very little to comfort her.

She tried to remember the tall, lanky, dark-skinned girl in Montsimmard’s gray and white mage robes that she had once been. But all she could see was the petite, frizzy-haired, big-eyed teenager in Starkhaven Circle’s unique red and blue.

The same teenager who Vivienne had found crying in the war room, shaking and praying to wake up from this horrible nightmare. The same teenager who collapsed the first time she closed a Fade rift, and had not opened her eyes for two days. The same teenager that screamed through the night, and woke up pleading for the demons to stop. The same teenager that Cole watched anxiously and never seemed to stray far from.

Vivienne hadn’t even noticed the speeding of her pulse or the shaking of her hands until the fireball burst. She made a small, choked noise in her throat and yanked her hands back. That was the first time in years that she had lost control of a fireball.

"Maker give me strength," she murmured.

"Vivienne?" Cassandra’s voice was low and husky from sleep, and threaded with concern. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"I was just thinking, love. Go back to sleep. I’ll join you soon," she replied softly, not turning around.

"Why is the rug burnt?"

Vivienne didn’t answer immediately, cursing her lover’s perceptive nature (and keen eyesight). Eventually, she joked flatly, “It was a tacky rug.”

"You are worrying about her again." It wasn’t even a question, or a guess; just a statement. Cassandra knew Vivienne every bit as well as she knew her sword, or her shield, or a battlefield. She knew when she laughed, when she hurt, and nearly always knew why.

The mage nodded anyway, still staring out of the window. "I am."

When she felt strong arms corded with muscle slide around her, she let herself be pulled into an embrace. Their hugs were often awkward, given her height compared to Cassandra’s, but the warmth against her back was a comfort without equal, tonight especially. Soft lips pressed against her shoulder, peppering the skin with kisses through the thin cloth of the nightgown. She let her eyes slip shut, letting out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, relaxing in her love’s arms.

"Taja will be okay," Cassandra whispered. "She is still here. That proves she is strong. Stronger than we could ever imagine."

"She is a  _child_ ,” Vivienne protested weakly. “Besieged by demons, targeted by assassins, and expected to end two wars and close a hole in the sky. I don’t know if  _strong_  will be enough.”

"It will be. She is our Inquisitor."

"She is young enough to be my child."

"She is our Inquisitor," Cassandra repeated, holding Vivienne more tightly against her. "I worry about her too. She has seen things no child should ever have to see. But under the soft, under the fear, she is forged of iron. And she can do this."

A long moment of silence passed between them. Then Vivienne turned in Cassandra’s arms to look at her. “She watches you, you know. When she thinks no one’s looking.”

"Does she?"

She nodded. “She looks at you like a little girl who just found exactly what she wants to be when she grows up. You are everything to her. She wants to be just like you.”

Cassandra gave a small smile. “I can’t imagine why.”

"I can," Vivienne said simply.

Cassandra smiled wider at her, then took one elegant hand in her own and kissed the back of it. “Come back to bed, love. We will check on Taja together in the morning. We will do everything we can to help her through this.”

"Promise?"

"Promise."


End file.
